Sherlock's Grand Adventures
by Ranger-Corpses
Summary: A series of unrelated one-shots of Sherlock's grand adventures. Characters may be a bit OOC.
1. Online College

**Ok, I'm honestly kind of scared because I never thought I'd write fanfictions for anything but Ranger's Apprentice, but here we go. Real quick: none of the chapters will interact with each other unless I say so at the beginning and these will all be one-shots all put into one fanfiction. Basically my fanfic for RA called 100 Chapter Story but for Sherlock. Also the characters may or may not be ooc.**

 **I hope you like it!**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing but a rapidly decreasing pocket of air.**

* * *

"But it's boring!" a voice said, ringing throughout the flat.

"Too bad, Sherlock, you need to know this if you want to pass," John said, more than a bit exasperated.

"I didn't even want to do this in the first place," Sherlock groaned, his silvery eyes rolling up into the back of his head.

"Sherlock, don't do that, it's bad for your eyes."

"Ya, and this is bad for my sanity. Which is more important?"

"A, which helps you solve cases? B, how can you lose something you've never had?" John snapped, his seemingly endless patience wearing thin.

Sherlock had been constantly complaining about how he was so completely bored that if he didn't get a halfway decent case soon, he would blow a hole in the wall. John, attempting to solve this boredom, had enrolled him in an online college. Surprise, surprise, Sherlock got in.

Only he found the whole thing to be useless, stupid, and boring.

"Don't be stupid John, the only reason I'll ever lose my sanity is this useless boring crap!" Sherlock shouted the last three words, slamming his hands down on the area of the computer where there was nothing but plastic showing. Obviously, he hoped to break it. Shame, he thought when it didn't.

His fingers itched for a gun of some sort to blow a hole in the wall with. Maybe sometime he could paint on new smiley faces and blow them to smithereens.

"Why do I even need to know this? It doesn't affect me or anyone I know," Sherlock barked. "What I need right now is an interesting case."

"Sherrrrlock," John groaned, letting his head fall back. "Just do the bloody problem!"

"And who brought this upon themselves? Ah, yes, a certain someone named John Watson," Sherlock said.

"You know what, fine. You win. Let's go find an "interesting" case," John said, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

"Remember John, rolling your eyes is bad for them," Sherlock called, already slipping into his trademark trench coat. "Bloody hell, at this point I'd even take some of those bloody reporters. Ahh, bloody reporters," Sherlock said with a slow smile. "Bloody would be fun."


	2. The One Thing He Didn't Think Of

**I suppose this one-shot could become a fanfiction of it's own, however I'm lazy and only want to do this much of it. XD**

* * *

Feet pounding on pavement, trench coat flying. Footsteps echoing off the alleyway walls. Metal on leather, the sound of knives of some sort being drawn.

"Ready John," Sherlock whispered to his friend who was running alongside him. John nodded his acknowledgment of Sherlock's hushed words and drew his gun, running into a nearby, convenient doorway. He quietly pulled the trigger, ready to shoot their pursuers.

Finally they came into view just as Sherlock ran around a corner, his footsteps echoing away. The two men following them were wearing ragged coats and threadbare clothes, and were probably living on the streets or in an old house that was no longer used.

A shot rang through the crisp night air, biting into the first man's leg. A second shot _pinged!_ off the stone walls of the alleyway. A third sent the second man to his knees.

John stalked over to the two groaning thieves, wondering how they could possibly be a part of one of the biggest drug traffics in London. After all, they were ragged in appearance and unskilled in chase.

He shrugged it off, knowing that Sherlock would take care of it.

* * *

Sherlock continued on, hearing three quick shots. Obviously, John missed one. He'd been forewarned to only injure them so that they could be questioned later. After all, Sherlock thought with a grin, dead men tell no tales.

He dodged a puddle lithely, still thinking about how he should interrogate them. Because he was so wrapped up deciding between a classic neck torture and a nice iron chair, that he failed to see the glass bottle. After all, he was more worried about any possible pursuers sent to catch them unaware and how to get information.

Sherlock skidded, his foot flying upward, and consequently, his head flew back. His shoulder slammed into the near wall of the alley and the back of his head cracked sharply against the pavement. The momentum he had built up from the slide upwards forced his lower half to continue over, resulting in a somersault-like motion.

Just before his head hit, he had come up with a lightning-fast solution to change the angle that his head hit to avoid a concussion on his most important part of his brain, the left half, responsible for logical thinking. However, in the process he instead hit the sector responsible for memory.

You never can think of everything, can you?

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called out, having taken care of the two drug-dealers. "Sherlock?"

Of course he was used to Sherlock disappearing, however he hadn't done it in a while. All John could do was jog along the alleyway in hopes to stumble across the sociopath.

A while along his jog, he did stumble across him. Quite literally, actually. He had just turned a corner when he found Sherlock lying, face-down on the dirty stone. He only just managed to not fall over his still body.

A second after John righted himself from jumping over him, he realized what it meant. Either Sherlock was badly hurt somehow or…

No, not again. He wouldn't go through that a second time. Sherlock would not be dead.

Then his training kicked in and he bent down beside his friend's body, checking for a pulse. It was there, albeit a bit fainter than it might normally be. He then searched for a wound. A few minutes later after careful examination he found the source of the problem- a blow to the head. A quick glance behind him showed an old glass bottle that could've been slipped on.

"How do you always manage to get yourself into these situations, Sherlock," John muttered as he dialed for an ambulance.

* * *

Pounding.

A very persistent pounding.

Now that he thought about it, the pounding pain in his skull flared up with each beat of his heart.

Sherlock groaned quietly, moving his hand up to rub the back of his head. Quickly assessing the room he saw that there was a middle-aged man sitting on the right side of the bed he was on. Other than that, there was nothing of interest other than the wilting rose on the table to the other side of him.

Sherlock internally ranted about this whole situation.

What am I supposed to do in this sorry excuse for a room, go insane? There's nothing to do. Ugh, it's so boring. The rest of his speech was not worth going into detail about. Let's just say it included death, sanity, and 'how could anyone possibly heal in this boring hellhole?'.

He groaned again, this time not from pain but from the immense boredom, and leaned his head back onto the pillows. That woke up the man to his right.  
"Sherlock, how are you feeling?" he asked. Sherlock kept his face cold as he assessed him.

No animals, recently been outside- dirt on the knees, not much care for outward appearances-

"Sherlock," the man said again, this time edged with worry.

"Why am I here," Sherlock asked, though it was phrased like a statement.

"Because you slipped and hit your head," the man said. "You've got a concussion."

"I don't care if I've bloody got cancer, why am I here?" Sherlock snapped. He wasn't asking for the injury, rather why he was here and not back at the flat groaning about it to Billy the Skull.

Obviously, the man had finally figured out what he really meant by the question. "Because a concussion is serious and could cause death if not properly cared for."

"Boring," Sherlock stated, dismissing the matter. He then attempted to get up, but the man stopped him. Sherlock let out a huff of air and fell back onto the bed which jostled his head. Pain flared up, however he kept the walls he considered his exterior to be up and strong.

"So," he said to cure his burning curiosity. "Who are you?"


	3. Quiet in the Flat

**While this fanfic and the last both have a similar topic, they are not related. Enjoy!**

* * *

Oddly enough, it was quiet in the flat. No Sherlock yelling about how bored he was, no gunshots slamming into the yellow smiley face spray painted onto the wall, no violin music, nothing.

That meant that John was suspicious and a tad worried.

"Sherlock," he called quietly. A groan answered.

"What?" Sherlock answered after the groan had finished.

"Just making sure you're here and alive," John said. He hesitated for a second, then walked into Sherlock's (virtually unused) room. Sherlock was laying face-first on his bed, his limbs splayed out a bit like a spider or starfish.

"What's wrong?" John asked, knowing that if Sherlock were in bed rather than out in the main room, something was wrong.

"Shut up," Sherlock ordered.

"Migraine?"

"Mfft," Sherlock grumbled.

"I see," John said. Sherlock flopped over.

"It's so stupid and boring. It hurts to even think." Sherlock ranted. "I can't do anything!"

He then winced and shut up, rubbing his head.


	4. Emotionless

Sherlock. Emotionless. Non-human. High functioning sociopath.

Clearly, if you didn't know him, you would think that this is all he was- an emotionless, non-human lunatic.

But if you got close to him- well, he was still that but a bit less-so. A bit less emotionless, still pretty non-human, and yes, still a lunatic.

Every time something terrible, catastrophic, or heart-wrenching happened, Sherlock would take it all in his stride.

But unknown to everyone else, Molly, Mrs Hudson, even John, each of these events felt like a knife cutting ever deeper into his heart. The great Sherlock Holmes was not totally emotionless, despite what the world thinks.

Sometimes it might show in the tiniest of things; playing a jaunty tune on the violin a bit slower than normal, hesitating before grabbing a chemical on an experiment on eyes and what-not, or acting in ways that John passed off as boredom.

* * *

I don't understand. He's dead.

It felt like someone had put me between two blocks and was pushing. I couldn't breathe from the pressure on my chest, pressing me down to the ground, trying with all it's might to break me.

I could feel the tears pricking the back of my eyes, but they wouldn't fall. No, they wouldn't even well up.

 _I'm sorry,_ they had said. _We can't save him-_ then I'd cut the doctor off and run to him. He was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do- nothing _I_ could do- to save him.

"John," I said, despair swallowing me, "I swear that if you die-"

I broke off. I couldn't say it. For once I was lost for words.

"Sherlock," he said weakly. "I think you already know what I'm going to say- bloody hell, you've probably known it since day one- but I'm going to say it anyways.

"I love you."

He'd died within the hour, leaving me alone.

Rushing like a train, my mind conjured thoughts.

 _What's wrong with me? The only one I've ever loved- truly loved- has just died and_ I'm not crying. _Am I so screwed up that I can't even shed a tear for John?_

* * *

 ***Stares* Wow, I didn't think this would go this far... XD**


End file.
